lestat & the discovery of lingerie
"mon cher, you went to the boutique?"
you walk to the kitchen bench after putting blood pouches in the fridge, seeing him eye the striped bag, cushioned with tissue paper on the inside. you meet his eyes, walking over to take out the contents.
"yes, so i found some comfy pieces that are stretchy, kind of", you explain, unwrapping the items to show him. "and they had a nice lace pattern on them..."
however as soon as the undergarments are revealed, lestat is quite focused on them. underwear and bralet, black, a modest design, but the lace is a romantic touch. he picks them up to feel them. good quality, no scratchiness, which can be hard to find these days.
"très bien", he agrees, putting it down, eyeing an identical panty, but in white. "that one was discounted, i'm pretty sure it's the same material?"
he nods, licking his lips. "i never doubted your eye for beauty", he suppresses a smile as he neatly folds the lingerie.
"mmm, well, that's how i found you", you quip, eyes locking on him. ah, he mouths, turning to face you, hair flicking behind him, his arms deciding to rest on your shoulders. "oh i love it when you flatter me like that", lestat hums; already a needy hum fights its way up his throat at the feeling of your hand clasping his waist.
"i know", you match his tone, arm snaking around, one hand brushing through his hair and watching his eyes close briefly. "glad you like the underwear though", you continue, voice lower. softer.
"i was reminded of you when i saw the white panties".
you watch his pupils dilate slightly. "oh, were you?", which you responds with a "yeah i was" as you both inch closer to each other until a kiss is shared. lips plush and soft as always, a tilt of your head allows you two to slot together. one of lestat's hands cradle the back of your head, sighing into your mouth. you lick your tongue past his lips, but pull away after a nibble on his lower lip. you part from him gently.
"i think we should save some of that for the bedroom, yeah?", you tease, picking up the lace garments and passing him the white underwear. "maybe the both of us should try 'em on", you suggest, seeing him tilt his head playfully.
"a quality check, non?" he chuckles, contagious to you, as you nod and slink in the direction of your bedroom. "quality check, exaaaactly", you laugh back. he follows you, hips swaying, almost a performance, like a snake being charmed. always charmed by you, at least.
You don’t get far.
The soft thud of the door echoes—final, deliberate—and by the time you’ve bent to tug at your shoes, he’s already there. Close. Too close.
You straighten, breath catching—not from surprise, never that, not with him—but from the way he occupies space. Like it belongs to him.
“Lestat—”
Your voice doesn’t quite finish.
Because his hand is already slinking at the door beside your head, the other finding your waist, pressing—firm, insistent—until your back meets the wood.
“Bedroom, hm?” he murmurs, voice velvet and smoke, lips ghosting yours but not quite touching. “You are cruel to suggest patience now.”
You smile, breath mingling. “Thought you liked anticipation.”
A giggle spills from him—warm, dangerous. “I like you far more.”
His mouth claims yours in a rush of heat—teeth grazing, lips parting, breath stolen and given back unevenly. Your hands find him just as quickly, fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to pull a sound from him—soft at first, then deeper.
“Ah—” he exhales against you, the sound catching, breaking. “Mon dieu…”
You answer by tilting your head, deepening the kiss, slower now—but no less consuming. The world narrows to sensation: the press of him, the rhythm of breath, the way he responds to every small shift like you’re conducting him.
“You do enjoy this game,” he mutters, lips dragging along your jaw, voice threaded with something almost like disbelief. “Tease… retreat… and then—”
Your fingers tighten in his hair again, cutting him off.
“And then?” you whisper.
He inhales sharply.
Your laugh is quiet, but it lingers between you—until your mouth is locked onto his neck. sweet, suckling bruisings that you leave; a mark, a signal, i sign you were there. especially with the graze of your fangs.
he gasps a little at first, but melting into it. his hands are splayed on your back, one higher at the nape of your neck. he hums, you can hear that he's biting on his own lip.
you pull away faster than he wanted you to, but you disconnect and grab the pieces of fabric off of the floor. you hold out the lacy white one and hand it to him, lestat welcoming in raw nature.
"okay, turn around", you point at him to face the door. "Must we, cherie? the last time i looked away was at 15—"
“Turn around.”
He exhales—long, exaggerated—eyes flicking upward in theatrical resistance, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth already.
“Bossy,” he mutters, though he turns anyway. Slow. Intentional. Always performing, even in obedience.
You don’t give him the satisfaction of watching.
You turn too—quicker, efficient hands making light work of fabric, the familiar rhythm of undressing undone by the subtle tremor in your fingers. Not nerves. Not quite.
Anticipation, maybe.
Behind you, there’s the whisper of movement. Cloth. Skin. A pause that feels louder than anything else.
You finish first.
For a second, you just stand there—feeling it. The air. The quiet. Him.
Then you turn.
And so does he.
It hits all at once—that look.
His eyes lock onto you like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, like everything before it was just prelude. There’s nothing coy in it. Nothing hidden. Just open, devouring appreciation.
“…putain de merde, baby, look at you—”
It slips out, unfiltered. His voice rougher than usual, edges frayed, like something in him forgot to stay composed.
You feel heat bloom under his gaze.
And then—you return it.
Because he’s no better.
The way he stands there, entirely aware of himself, of how the fabric sits against him, how it frames him—it’s deliberate without seeming forced. Effortless arrogance. Beauty worn like second skin.
Your gaze lingers longer than you mean it to.
Traces.
Learns.
“I could say the same to you.”
Your voice comes out lower, softer—changed.
You notice it.
So does he.
And so does he.
The room tilts—just slightly.
Not from movement, but from the way his gaze lands. Heavy. Intent. Like he’s adjusting to a new version of you in real time, committing it to memory with almost clinical focus.
The lace sits against him like it belongs there.
Delicate, yes—but it only sharpens everything else. The line of his waist, the effortless arrogance in the way he stands, shoulders loose, chin tipped just enough to suggest he knows exactly what he looks like and has decided it’s worth admiring.
“...hm.”
It’s quieter this time. Not the earlier outburst—something more contained, more thoughtful. His eyes drag, unhurried, over you.
And then—back up.
You feel it in your spine.
The black lace on you—softer. It doesn’t command the way he does; it settles, melts into your skin, pulls warmth out of it. Makes everything look… intentional.
“God,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “That suits you.”
You huff a small laugh, breaking the tension just enough to breathe again. “Yeah?”
His mouth curves. “Unfairly so.”
You look at him again—properly this time—and something in your expression must shift, because he mirrors it almost immediately.
A grin. Crooked. Bright.
It slips out of you—a small, shared giggle. Unexpected. Human.
“Wait,” you say suddenly, turning away, scanning the room. “Where’s my phone—”
He watches you move, amusement flickering back in. “Ah. Of course. Documentation.”
“Obviously,” you toss over your shoulder, already digging through fabric, sheets, the small chaos of the room. “We look too good right now, I’m not letting this go to waste.”
A beat.
Then, lightly—
“Touché.”
When you turn back, phone in hand, he’s already shifting into it.
Not stiff. Never awkward.
He poses like breathing—natural, fluid, a little ridiculous on purpose. A tilt of the hip too dramatic, a hand thrown lazily over his head, eyes half-lidded in exaggerated seduction.
You laugh. “Stop—no, hold that—”
“I am holding it,” he insists, barely containing his own amusement as he adjusts, making it worse on purpose.
You snap a photo anyway.
“Incorrigible,” you mutter.
“Yet you persist.”
He moves without being asked next—onto the bed, settling with an ease that feels practiced. Legs crossing, posture shifting—something almost feminine in the line of it, though never fragile. Just… controlled.
Then uncrossing. Repositioning. Stretching out, then folding in again.
Each movement deliberate.
Each one watched.
You follow him with the camera, clicking, adjusting, circling slowly like you’re studying him from different angles—which, in a way, you are.
“Here,” you say after a moment, gesturing toward the mirror. “Go stand there.”
He glances at it, then back at you.
A flicker of interest.
“Ah,” he murmurs. He rises, drifting toward it, gaze already catching his own reflection before he’s fully there.
You step in behind him.
Close enough to feel the heat of him, not quite touching.
The phone lifts.
In the mirror— Him. And you behind him. And the small, rectangular intrusion of the lens capturing it all. Click.
You switch to video without thinking much about it.
“Look at yourself,” you murmur.
He does.
Not vainly. Not exactly.
Just… aware.
Of everything.
Of you.
Your hand appears in frame next—slow, deliberate—coming up along the line of his throat, fingers resting there for a second before curling lightly.
He exhales.
Soft. Audible.
Not exaggerated this time.
Real.
His eyes flick—just briefly—to yours in the reflection.
Then back to himself.
Your hand shifts, tracing downward—not hurried, not searching. Just mapping. Feeling the way he reacts in micro-movements: the tightening of his jaw, the slight lift of his chest, the way his breath recalibrates.
“Mm, mon amour...” he hums, barely casual.
You tug lightly at the waistband—just enough to snap the tension of it.
A quiet sound escapes him—half laugh, half something else.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice dipping, gaze still fixed on the mirror, dazed. “You’re enjoying this far too much.” The video cuts.
Your hand lingers a second longer at his throat before smoothing down his back, slow, absent-minded now. The shift is subtle—less performance, more afterglow of being watched.
You pass him the phone.
He takes it like something ceremonial, glancing at the screen, then back at you.
“Oui, I remember,” he says lightly, thumb already adjusting something. “You scolded me thoroughly.”
You snort. “Not scolding. Teaching. Big difference.”
“Mm.” His eyes flick up, amused. “Yes, yes—your brilliance knows no bounds.”
“Exposure,” you remind, gesturing vaguely. “Bring it down a bit—yeah, like that.”
He hums, tilting the phone, testing angles with surprising patience.
Then—
Click.
You weren’t ready.
Brows lifted, mid-laugh, caught in that unguarded second between posing and reacting.
“Hey—” you start, half protesting, already smiling.
“Perfect,” he says, entirely pleased with himself. “Completely unprepared. I prefer you like this.”
You straighten instinctively, running a hand back through your hair—though it falls forward again, soft, imperfect. One leg bends slightly, weight shifting. Your hand comes up to your mouth, laughter muffled, teeth grazing lightly against your finger.
He watches all of it.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs, voice dropping—not commanding, just intent.
Click.
“Ah—there. That. Comme ça.”
Tap.
“The way you try to hide it,” he continues, almost narrating to himself. “As if it makes any difference.”
Click.
You shake your head, laughing again. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re beautiful. Stay still mon cherié.”
You don’t.
Instead, you cross the space and drop onto the bed with a soft thud, limbs loose, unposed.
He follows—circling, adjusting—then lifting the phone above you.
Click.
From above, you look different. Softer. Open.
“Interesting,” he murmurs.
“Don’t analyse me,” you reply, squinting up at him.
“Impossible.”
Lestat swipes his finger—videoing you now.
You push yourself up on your elbows, then sit, meeting his gaze through the lens.
Something shifts again.
Quieter.
He lowers himself to the edge of the bed, watching you—not just through the screen now, but directly. Measuring the difference.
“Come here,” you say.
He doesn’t hesitate.
The mattress dips as he moves closer—closer—until the space between you disappears entirely and you swing a leg over him, settling easily.
The camera wobbles slightly.
Your laughter spills out first—light, uncontained.
“Careful,” he says, though he’s smiling now too, something flushed in his expression, a rare looseness slipping through.
“Me?” you grin. “You’re the one filming.”
“I am documenting,” he corrects, breath catching faintly as you shift against him. “There is a difference.”
“Sure.”
You lean in, peering at the screen—at yourself, at him beneath you.
Then, without warning, you take the phone.
“Let me.” He lets you. The angle flips—now him in frame.
Below you looking up.
There’s colour in his cheeks now—subtle, but there. His lips part slightly, and for a moment he just… looks at you.
Unfiltered.
Then he laughs—soft, breathy, biting down briefly on his lower lip like he’s trying to contain it.
“You see?” he murmurs, voice lower now, slipping easily into French without thinking. “Je pourrais rester comme ça… te regarder… c’est déjà trop.”
The words roll out of him, softer, less performative than before—something closer to instinct.
You tilt your head, watching him through the screen.
“Yeah?” you murmur. “That all it takes?”
His eyes flicker—something sharper now, but tangled with amusement.
“You enjoy this intensely” he says, though there’s no real protest in it.
“We've established that, oui.”
You hold the camera a little steadier, letting it linger on him—on the way he reacts, the way he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself under your gaze.
That’s new.
That’s yours.
“Turn it off,” he says suddenly—half-laughing, half-breathless now, one hand coming up like he might reach for it but doesn’t quite follow through. “Enough—”
“Why?” you tease.
“Because—” he exhales, shaking his head, something almost shy flickering through before it disappears again “—because I can't wait any longer.”
The words land softer than expected.
"Baby, J'ai envie d'être baisée comme une salope—s'il te plait—"
You watch him a second longer.
••••••••••••
the phone is discarded.
It shifts again.
Not softer.
Sharper.
The air feels thinner, like something’s been stripped out of it—pretense, maybe. Politeness.
Your weight settles heavier into him, less playful now. Intentional.
His hands react instantly—gripping harder at your hips, fingers pressing in like he needs something solid to hold onto.
“Don’t—” he starts, breath catching, voice rougher than before. “Don’t slow down now.”
You don’t.
If anything, you drag it out. Deliberate. Mean in the way you know he likes—just enough friction, just enough pause to make him feel it build instead of break.
A sound tears out of him—low, wrecked, not dressed up in charm this time.
“Regarde-moi,” he mutters, almost a demand. “Look at what you’re doing.”
You do.
God—
He looks ruined already. Hair mussed, mouth parted, eyes blown wide and glassy like he’s watching something happen tohim instead of controlling it.
“Pretty boy,” you breathe, quieter now, almost reverent—but it lands like a spark to dry tinder.
His head tips back, throat exposed again, a broken laugh spilling out that dissolves into something closer to a moan.
“Tu es terrible—” he chokes out. “You know exactly— exactly—”
You cut him off with movement—harder this time.
His reaction is immediate.
A sharp inhale—then a sound that punches out of him, loud, uncontained.
“Putain—”
Your hands brace against his chest, holding yourself steady while you keep grinding your clothed cunt onto his angry erection peaking out of his ruined panties, chasing that exact reaction again.
“Yeah,” you murmur, breath uneven now. “Just like that.”
He laughs—but it’s fractured, breathless, caught somewhere between defiance and surrender.
“You’re—” he shakes his head, words failing him for once. “You’re going to be the end of me.”
“Doubt it.”
But your voice is softer now. Closer.
Your forehead presses briefly to his—grounding, for half a second—before everything slips again.
His grip tightens—pulling you closer, not guiding anymore, just reacting, chasing, losing that careful control he usually wears like armor.
“Mon Dieu…” he breathes, and this time there’s no irony in it. No performance. Just need. “S’il te plaît—”
The words break.
You feel it—that edge. That tipping point where he stops pretending to manage it.
And something in you answers.
The rhythm stutters—then collapses into something heavier, messier, shared.
It breaks.
Not cleanly.
Not all at once.
It fractures through both of you in uneven waves—breath first, then tension, then whatever fragile thread of control either of you had left.
His body reacts before his words do.
A sharp inhale—then a sound that tears out of him, raw, unguarded, nothing like the polished cadence he wears so well. His head falls back, throat exposed, spine arching just enough to betray how completely it takes him.
“M-mon cher—!”
It’s not said.
It’s dragged out of him.
Your name follows somewhere in the wreckage of it—half-formed, breathless, lost between languages.
And you—
You feel it answer. Immediate. Unavoidable. Your hands tighten against him, grounding, or maybe just holding on as everything pulls taut and then gives.
For a moment, there’s nothing but that—shared, overwhelming, messy in a way neither of you bothers to hide.
Then the aftermath comes in slowly.
Breath returning in pieces.
His chest rising sharply under your palms, a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh slipping through as he drags himself back together.
“…you are—” he starts, then exhales, shaking his head slightly. “God.”
You don’t answer right away.
Your hands move instead—slower now, less demanding. Tracing. Learning the aftermath of him, the way his body still reacts in smaller, sharper flinches that he doesn’t quite manage to conceal.
“Sensitive?” you murmur.
His eyes flick to yours—bright, still a little unfocused.
“Excessively,” he admits, voice thinner now, edged with something close to a laugh.
You shift slightly, easing the tension between you, your fingers brushing along the delicate fabric at his waist—testing, teasing the edge of it.
He inhales again—sharper this time.
“Careful,” he warns softly, though there’s no real resistance behind it. “Or I won’t recover at all.”
“Maybe that’s the point.”
That earns you a quiet, breathless sound—half protest, half amusement. your hand decidedly slips the underwear down and off of him, somehow manoeuvring. you purr at his softening cock, still red and flushed at the tip, so, so, so sensitive.
you lower your lips and tongue to take him in your mouth, making him almost jump. "oh, fuck, wh..."
you suckle around the head and hear him injuredly whine, leg kicking. you lap up the remainder of his release and pull off, successfully cleaning him up.
before your rationality catches up to you, a hand is instinctively going into your panties and gathering slick. those two fingers you hold up to lestat's mouth.
"go on, baby, taste it".
not that he needs to be told twice. he moans around your fingers like a whore whose just been given the elixir of life. you smirk at the sight of his head giving a tiny bob as his tongue and cheek polishes off your digits.
releasing with a pop, you chuckle gratifyingly. "i think", he gasps in air, eyes glazed but focused on you, "we should play dress up more often".
you both let out a small stifled laugh at that. "yeah, we should", you murmur, leaning in to kiss him one last time before dismounting him.
"i knew you'd like it".
